Moments In Time In 221B
by CKLizzy
Summary: This is - or will be - a collection of ficlets, too short to be a proper story, written following prompts or various other inspirations. Categories and ratings may vary, but it will always be Johnlock in some way.
1. Our Song

_Being as old-fashioned as I am, I don't think a piece of writing under 1000 or 500 words qualifies as story. But ever since I came across Tumblr, I've caught myself writing ficlets of such length (uh, *shorth*?). I don't want to post them as single stories; so this will be my collection of ficlets inspired by Tumblr posts, fanart, and basically everything else that can be inspiring._

_This can and will have everything in regards to a category (fluff, h/c, angst, humor etc.), but it sure will always be Johnlock. Ratings may vary and/or change._

_If you like, send me prompts. No guarantee that I will fill them, though, my muse and mind are a bit stubborn at times._

_**This one is based on a post that showed up on my dash - all it said was "Sherlock playing his violin at John's wedding". I wanted to scroll past it, but my mind was already working, prompting me with the following ficlet.**_

_Rated K._

* * *

**Our Song**

He was disappointed. So disappointed. But was he surprised? He shouldn't be. Really shouldn't. This was Sherlock Holmes, after all. And when you chose genius detective Sherlock Holmes as best man, you had to face the possibility that he wouldn't turn up - because some damn case was more important than the wedding of his best friend, and because he didn't care about weddings anyways, as he'd made quite clear.

John sighed. At least he had Mike, who had, with a knowing smile, agreed to stand in for Sherlock. Now was really not the time to be angry; not when his soon-to-be wife was about to walk town the aisle.

A smile - one he didn't entirely feel, despite this day being the happiest in his life - firmly in place he faced the church doors Mary would enter through any second now.

But when she eventually did, John wasn't looking anymore.

The moment the doors opened, music started to play - as expected. But not from the church organ.

A single violin accompanied Mary's way down the aisle.

A few steps to his right he stood, John's best man, _best friend_, playing Mendelssohn Bartholdy's Bridal March, and John stared at him, open-mouthed, dumbstruck, not believing his eyes.

Even when Mike nudged him to look at approaching Mary again, he still couldn't turn his head. Too much he feared - yes, actually feared, he realized with a start - his mind betraying him, and that this beautiful illusion would be gone the moment he looked away.

"John," he suddenly heard a so well-known and yet unfamiliar voice when the song had almost ended. It was a fight against his own muscles when he heaved his head back around to where it was supposed to face, and looked at Mary, who was regarding him questioningly.

Right. This was really not the time to think about Sherlock, or his complicated relationship the genius.

Turning around to the waiting priest, Mary's arm linked with his, he stole himself one last side glance at his friend, now standing next to him. Where he belonged.

_This was the time to marry the love of his life_.


	2. Wedding Vows

_This was inspired by a prompt I read on LJ - unfortunately, I can't find it anymore; I can't actually remember what it was. It is not based on the prompt or a fill; just something that came to my mind. Sorry if I bent (book) canon._

_Rated K._

* * *

**Wedding Vows**

"Why?" The voice sounded bored and uninterested, as if he wasn't even really listening. But then, when was he?

"Because... well... never mind why, just do it for me, okay? I need someone to stand before me and listen to it, saying it to a mirror or empty room doesn't work. Besides, you're my best man; it's your job to help me with that."

John was standing next to Sherlock, hands on hips, while the detective sat, quite unimpressed and not even looking up, at the desk, typing away on his laptop.

"I'm hardly the right person to evaluate such a speech, John," his friend replied, voice still having the same absent-minded tone.

"I don't ask you to _evaluate_; I only ask you to _listen_. Come on, Sherlock, I thought we were friends!" At that, the detective looked up, then slowly turned his head to the side where John was standing. Just as slow he stood, and followed John to the middle of the room. For a moment they looked at each other, then the detective nodded.

"When we first met, I wasn't the most appealing man on Earth. Probably not even in the room. I was a lonely and miserable soul, and really not the best company to anyone."

_/ There were too many people in the room, and he really didn't want anything but turn on his heels and walk back out. Maybe he wouldn't even make the effort to turn. Everything was cheery and happy and colorful, and it didn't match his mood in the slightest. But Mike had thought it a good idea, and he really needed to meet other people again; he been a loner for too long. /_

"But you just smiled at me, you winked and gave me your number, and you made it clear that you wouldn't let me go again."

_/ She was the literal, and very cliched, presence to light up the room. She turned when he strode the room, walking nowhere in particular, and gave him a challenging look before she began to smile. Oh, that smile. A smirk actually, a deeply meaningful smirk that only pulled up one corner of her mouth, and yet shifted her whole expression. It reminded him of someone, but he couldn't remember who. She greeted him with "Hey there, handsome." out of the blue, winked, and then pulled out a piece of paper she thrust into his hand. "I expect you to call me, and don't you dare not to." With that, she turned back to the people she had been talking to. /_

"I didn't actually need our first date to know that I wouldn't let you go again either. I believed you to be an enchantress, because it had to be a spell you had me under, right from the beginning. Until I realized it was the spell they call love."

_/ Her apartment was in the suburbs of London, a nice neighborhood, and not the cheapest either. She was not one of the poorer of the city; she did well in her job and came from a rather influential, wealthy family. He immediately felt at home in her flat, though she wasn't very much on the side of tidiness. Not that he wasn't used to that. /_

"I still don't know how I deserve you, but you made, and make, my life better. You took a misanthrope and gave him the most amazing rollercoaster life, you taught him to laugh again, to love again."

_/ They raced the streets of the city, chasing each other, running high on adrenaline, before coming home and making love out of excitement. They made the silliest things, took the most amazing journeys, and met the most extraordinary people. They had the time of their lives, a never-ending adventure, and before long they knew they had to have this till the very end. When he fell to his knee once their cabin of the London Eye reached its highest position, she didn't even need to hear the question to yell Yes at the top of her lungs. /_

"Whatever happens, I want to be at your side, because without you, my life will be forever incomplete. I love you."

John's eyes had been glued to the piece of paper in his hands, eager to read it all out correctly so he could memorize it at the same time. But as he spoke the last words, he lifted his head to face the man standing before him, the man who served as a substitute for the woman he loved, as a stand-in for the one person he would hold this speech to at the church the following day.

And then in the moment his eyes met Sherlock's, everything he had said, everything he remembered of his time together with his soon-to-be wife was overlaid by memories of a whole different kind, memories of a life many years ago, of excitement and madness and danger and so much fun. It crashed down on him, everything he had sought and found, but suddenly he couldn't distinguish anymore with whom.

"I love you," passed his lips again, without him realizing he had even drawn breath to talk, or opened his mouth.

FIN


	3. Sharing

_Not really inspired by anything, safe for the beautiful Sherlock and John fanart that shows up on my Tumblr dash now and then. Mostly, however, written for Sue over at AO3. Not much of a balance, but I work on getting there ;)_

_Rated K+._

* * *

**Sharing**

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"What are you doing?" A sigh, one of the _please don't tell me you're not recognizing the obvious_ variety.

"Going to bed. I'm tired."

"Yes, but... why-"

"You're always nagging me to sleep more."

"True-" Voice and word laced with protest.

"Have you suddenly changed your mind?"

"No, but-" Still dumbfounded.

"The why are you inquiring my actions?"

"Because it is my bed." A pause.

"You never clarified where you expected me to sleep."

"Well, in _your_ bed, obviously."

"It's occupied. And yours is big enough for both of us." The long legs tangling with shorter ones, the lean body pressed against a slightly rounder one, a face buried in another's neck, and one bed occupant's hands flattening on the chest of the other original owner's proved that not even the narrowest single bed would have been too small.

"But-!" A kiss on a shoulder - with silencing effect.

"Sleep, John."

And he did.

FIN


	4. Rightful Possession

_I'm actually sorry for that. ... Well, okay, no I'm not. I just couldn't resist. I know it's a bit lame, but still..._

_Inspired by a Tumblr post. Link won't appear here (not even with tricks, gnah), but you can find it in this story over at AO3._

_The post has been going around Tumblr for a while now, and I laugh every time I see it._

_Rated K+._

* * *

**Rightful Possession**

"John," Sherlock said, his voice very calm, "would you please take your hands off it?"

"But Sherlock-"

"No, John." He sounded like he was explaining something to a little child. "We talked about this. You have your own. There is no need to use mine."

"I know, but yours is much bigger and better and-"

"John."

"Why is it such a problem for you when I use your dic-?"

"Because I've seen yours and you're obviously now capable of properly taking care of it."

"But it's just a-"

"It is much more, John. Now please, just use your own."

"Fine." And a grumbling John vanished through the door that led out of the living room.

FIN


	5. Crime-Rated

_This idea came to me when I was watching ASiB again. Apparently my muse liked the idea of Sherlock rating the crimes he consulted on. ;)_

_Rated K+ (T, if you squint)_

* * *

**Crime-Rated**

The ringing sound only slowly penetrated the sleep-induced haze his mind was happily floating in. Too tired he'd been when he'd finally fallen asleep a few hours ago, exhausted and heavy-limbed. Reaching for his phone on his nightstand turned out to require much more effort than he was actually willing to invest at these early Saturday morning hour, but then he thought was it still better than risking the phone disturbing the pleasant quiet any longer, or even repeatedly.

"John? It's Greg," he heard DI Lestrade the moment he finally picked up, not even having the time to wake his vocal cords for a greeting first. "We've got a case. Dead body at the tube, missing his feet. Do you know where Sherlock is? He doesn't reply to my messages."

"Greg, it's seven on a Saturday morning. Did it occur to you that some people might still be asleep?" John outright grumbled, but in that moment he couldn't have cared less about politeness.

"Yeah, sorry mate, thought you might be; not Sherlock though. But since I can't reach him..." Hardly suppressing a groan, the doctor let himself fall back into the pillow from where he'd been leaning on his elbows.

"Listen... I tell him, okay? What was it again?"

"Body, male, no feet. Was found him on the tracks about an hour ago; in the tunnel, not directly at the station. Someone put him there, no blood trail, and he wasn't dragged along by a train." John listened with as much attention as he could muster, then shook his head.

"That's barely a six. You know he never leaves the house or even gets up for less than a seven."

"Don't dismiss it too quickly-"

"Look, I tell him and let him get back to you, okay?"

"All right. Thanks, John. And sorry again."

"Yeah, no bother." As soon as he'd hung up he put the mobile aside, once again sinking back into the mattress.

"You were wrong," a voice beside him murmured, still sleepy, "that's not even a six. A five at most."

"You're just saying that because you don't want to get up." A snort was all he got as an answer. "It's a case, Sherlock. And it does sound interesting." This time, there was no reply, but instead a long arm sneaking around his body.

"It's your fault. You drained me of my energy." For a moment John wondered if his company was serious - not that it would have been surprising - until he felt a smile forming against his skin where Sherlock's cheek had come to rest. John laughed.

"I remember that _you_ were the one who was insatiable." The hum against his chest was immediately answered by heat spreading through his body.

"I still am."

And John had barely the chance to even think of a comeback before hot lips sealed his own in a hungry kiss and a lithe body with eager hands covered every last inch of him.

FIN


	6. The Next Step

_Result of a picture prompt on Tumblr. Link can be found on AO3 and on my homepage (archive)._

_I think this bunny ran a bit away with me. Or from me. -.-_

_As it goes these days, I guess I have to place a warning at this point - this could be considered DUBCON. In my head all actions are consensual, but - better safe than sorry ;)_

_Rated T (with M tendencies)_

* * *

**The Next Step**

_Still not gay. He was still not gay._

Never before in his life he had felt the need for a mantra to play over and over in his mind, just to convince himself of something he'd known for years anyways. He'd ever since been self-assured enough to be able to forego such means; he knew who he was, what he liked, what he wanted.

Months and years of loneliness after one had lost their best friend did funny things to a person's mind, though. First and foremost, it got one thinking. Too much, too often, too long. Thinking about shared moments, made memories, passed adventures, survived dangers. Thinking, and reconsidering. All those things he'd never paid attention to before because they seemed too unimportant to waste time on them. Or maybe because he just didn't want to give them any further thought, didn't want to contemplate their meaning.

For John, it had been all those moments, the small things, he'd shared with Sherlock. When they were together, when they ran together, fought together, laughed together. Moments of the strangest kind of domesticity that yet was perfectly normal.

In the end, _still not gay_ proved to be right; because he wasn't. He looked at men he passed on the street, met at a pub, in the supermarket, in the park, and felt nothing. Nothing at all. He looked at women and there sure was this spark, this old spark he was so familiar with, and that felt right, because he'd never had anything else. And then he thought of Sherlock, looked at his picture, and there was something entirely else. More than a spark. More than affection for a friend. More than attraction to a unarguably beautiful man even.

Instead it was something that broke his heart into a thousand pieces.

Three years he lived, _existed_, with the assurance that nothing would ever be as it was during his time with Sherlock. Three years he believed his heart would never heal. He had an affair or two, one even aspiring to be a promising relationship. Mary was a nice woman, and she accepted his pain, his mourning, but ultimately his tormented soul resisted a commitment that would have made both of them unhappy.

When Sherlock returned, he knew he ought to have gone crazy. Later on, he really wondered why he didn't. It was too much to take. He had seen comrades, friends, return after they'd been believed and declared dead, and it had torn his insides apart time and again, because mourning and happiness, crashing together in those moments, were such a volatile combination.

Sherlock suddenly standing before him, his best friend he had believed, but never quiet, lost forever - it had taken him days, if not weeks, to work through all the emotions, the surprise, anger, pain, joy, fear, even disgust for what his friend had done to him. But in the end, relief won; relief and another feeling he had struggled to define for a while.

Until this very day.

They were back at 221B, Mrs. Hudson only too happy to welcome them in the old flat again. The way his friend was stretched out on the couch, like he'd done _before_ as well, conjured up all kinds of feelings inside of him, one of them the yet nameless one; the one that now made him rise from his seat and approach the head end of the sofa.

"John, what do you want?! I'm thinking!" Sherlock immediately dismissed when John leaned over him, his hands placed carefully on either side of the younger man's head, and instead of giving a snarky reply he just smiled fondly.

_Well, Sherlock. Deduce, _John thought, then leaned down and caught Sherlock's lower lip between his, slightly nibbling, suckling, until he heard the other man moan into his mouth. Slowly he let go again, but remained close, sharing Sherlock's uneven breath.

"I - Oh God, John," he whispered, a sound that made John shudder pleasantly, "I hav- nev- I… Oh God." His voice got lost when the doctor once again pressed his lips against him, and awkward as it was, facing each other like this, it also gave an incredibly alluring prospect.

"Shh, Sherlock, don't worry, I will not hurt you," John murmured against Sherlock's lips. He heard the younger man make a disapproving sound in the back of his throat then, most likely to protest against the sentiment - as inexperienced as Sherlock may ever have been, he was no idiot, and he sure didn't want to be treated like one. But John wasn't a fool either. Even if Sherlock was a master of pretense, the trembling that had taken possession of his whole body he couldn't conceal.

To emphasize his words, John brought up his hands to caress the other man's cheeks, have his fingertips graze the area just below the jawbone, tickling it almost and immediately having Sherlock lean into the touch. He was aware that he was causing sensations that were hard to understand for someone who had never been treated to them, and John wanted nothing more than for Sherlock to relish in them.

It were no kisses yet they shared; it was only the touch of lips, a tongue dancing over full cushions before slipping between them, just a bit, just probing, just making a presence known he yet planned to let much more feel of. He first felt, then saw Sherlock's hands fly up, grabbing at thin air, fists clenching und unclenching, the movement of his arms causing the dressing gown, tied loosely, slip open a bit to reveal a bare chest beneath.

"John," Sherlock moaned into his mouth then, and the doctor's temptation got the better of him as he began to walk from behind his friend's head to his side, never losing contact, soft kisses placed all over that handsome face, until he was able to sit down next to him on the edge of the sofa. Just a bit he pulled back, just to catch a glimpse into the younger man's eyes that now opened, leisurely, eyelids no doubt heavy with his body's need to _just feel._

"What are you-" Sherlock started a last attempt at reasoning, explanations, deductions, but John wouldn't let him.

"The right thing," he replied, as if it explained everything. It did, for him, and he hoped it would be the same for the man he planned to make his. There was doubt and trust, fear and curiosity in his friend's eyes, and it was all John needed as reassurance when he brushed his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip, then opened his mouth with a gentle tug at his chin.

He was past tender exploration and careful testing. He fell against Sherlock and sealed his mouth with his own, entangling their tongues in a passionate dance he led and his partner followed, hesitation gone, a willingness to learn setting in. The sensation of having a muscular chest instead of soft breasts meet him was odd, but right then nothing he would have wanted to give up for anything more familiar, but so unimportant.

As their lips' encounter grew more desperate, a longing revealing itself in touch and contact, John climbed atop Sherlock and pressed their bodies together, meeting him head to toe. It didn't take long before he noticed a certain hardness against his belly, and to his own surprise, it was the most erotic thing he'd ever felt. I was another man's arousal, ready and waiting, asking for attention, and he found himself more than willing to give just that. Forevermore.

_But he was still not gay._

Because it weren't men. It was just Sherlock.

Always Sherlock.

FIN


	7. Too Late

_A Tumblr post made me aware of something that was said during the 2013 SDCC panel. This is what my mind came up with. Not even remotely funny, contrary to what, according to Steven Moffat, the actual scene will be like, but I had to write it anyways._

_Rated K+._

* * *

"John."

Voices coming from beyond the grave didn't exist. They were simply a figment of imagination, the mind's way to deal with circumstances it couldn't understand. Pain, terror, shock. Grief. John Watson had often heard that voice, that rich and soothing baritone, in the past three years. Those years he had spent without his best friend; years that had crawled by ever since Sherlock Holmes had died. It was a voice that used to say horrible, insulting things at times, and the most amazing ones at others, and that never failed to calm down him down in moments when desolation threatened to overwhelm him.

"How dare you come back now." He wasn't even sure it was real. He wasn't sure the figure standing in the doorframe was there, and wouldn't just vanish when his heart and soul, in permanent uproar because they had never fully accepted the truth of his loss and fought against it ever since, decided to settle for a deception his rationality refused.

But then the person began to move, - the tall, lithe human being with serious and honest eyes, with boyishly dark curls, with ridiculously full lips and ever-fascinating cheekbones that came together to form features John had been strangely intrigued by from the very first day on - approached him without vanishing into thin air, as he should have, as visions always did the moment one had the chance to touch them, and John knew with agonizing and yet delightful certainty that this shadow of a hope he'd clung to for too long was real.

_He_ was real.

"You are alive."

"Yes, John," the voice once more washed over him; and there was this well-known tone, this hint of disapproval for stating the obvious in it, and it was the last confirmation John needed.

"I stood at your grave and I begged you not to be dead. Do you hear me? I _begged_ you!"

"I know," Sherlock had the nerve to reply calmly, "I was there."

"You wer-" John drew a shaky breath, and closed his eyes for a moment. His stare was hard and cold when he focused it on the detective again. "_You_... were... _there_," he tried to assess the fact, tried to grab its meaning by understanding it word by word. "You were there and you-" Another pause, and a headshake. "You were there and you didn't, just for a moment, consider to let me know you are _alive_?!"

"I couldn't, it would have interfered with my plans." The doctor simply gaped at him; his brain taking, for his taste, too much time to process what he had just heard.

"You _plans_? And which-" Another lungful of air he sucked in, seeking a calming effect. And it helped - to a degree. Dangerously low was his voice when he continued, a humorless smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Which plans, if you don't mind my asking, kept you from telling your _friends_ that you weren't dead? Kept you from being a selfish bastard?" The younger man flinched slightly at his last words, and John registered it with smug satisfaction.

"I had to assure that Moriarty's criminal network wouldn't continue to exist after his death. I couldn't allow for anyone to know that I wasn't dead; I may not have been able to disassemble this organization otherwise. Unfortunately it included causing you distress, for which I am sorry."

"You are sorry? You bloody arrogant son of a-" And there it was. A slip in his self-control. The inability to stop his words from turning into motions. John had always prided himself on being able to control himself, to rather fight verbally than physically; he'd done enough of the latter in his years in the Army. Never was he to lay a finger on family and friends; he ought to have protected and defended them, not hurt them.

But Sherlock's words, delivered as emotionless as ever, caused rage to flame up inside of him - and his fist to land a punch on the other man's face before he could even register his own failing composure. Sherlock looked irritated enough, a small cut showing on his lower lip, an angry red mark appearing almost immediately on his pale skin.

"I _mourned_ you. You were my... I needed... I..." He knew he didn't need to finish the sentence. And he couldn't either. Too busy he was with swallowing his tears, his anger turning against himself at an instant for his inability to control his emotions - especially in front of one Sherlock Holmes.

But then he saw it. The flicker of guilt in Sherlock's eyes, brief, gone in the fraction of a second, but it had been there. Just as there were endless tales and explanations pouring from same eyes now, exasperated illustrations of events, clarifications of behaviors and actions that didn't believe needed justification, for they had been well thought through, and they had been done for the right reasons.

And still, for maybe the first, even the only time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was betrayed by his tongue.

"I was afraid you could get hurt. I was afraid to lose you." He had said it quietly, barely audible; admitting weakness, confessing sentiment. It had been a low rumble of voice, a humming sound that affected John so deeply that he couldn't even begin to understand it. But he understood the words.

John _understood_. Finally.

It was his heart reigning over his mind. It was his body acting up, leaving his head powerless. It were his hands framing his best friend's face, pulling it close, and his mouth claiming the other man's lips.

It was a kiss his life depended on.

If he'd been conscious enough of what he was doing, if he hadn't just acted on feelings, on desperation and relief and anger and something else he didn't dare to name, he would have actually wondered about Sherlock's reaction. He would have wondered about why there was a reaction, how the consulting detective, forever uninterested in any kind of relationship safe for his friendship with John, fell into the kiss as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He would have wondered why Sherlock let it happen, didn't push him away, complaining about unreasonable actions. He would have wondered how Sherlock knew exactly how to kiss him back, how to make his knees weak, rob him of his breath.

If he had been able to think, he would have never wanted to think again.

But once more his mind betrayed him. Once more he simply ignored everything, everything he felt and wanted and longed for. He reveled in the kiss, in having Sherlock close, have him back in his life, have the man he needed so much with him again. Have him for one stolen moment.

A moment that was over too soon.

Slowly he detached himself, took a step back, and turned to the door.

"I'm getting married next week."

And then he left.

* * *

_*runs and hides* Sorry?!_


End file.
